


waking up to you

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 3x11 never happened AU, Drabble, Kissing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, comfort kissing, is that a thing?, uhh, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a while, a few months, since Pan had backed out of casting the curse over Storybrooke, had his powers ripped from him, and sent on a wild goose chase to find something satisfactory in this life in this land without magic. </p><p>And Peter's adjustment is anything but graceful. But Felix is wont to help him with it, in any way he can. </p><p><i>Sequel to <span class="u">Not Playing</span></i> </p><p>AU where, instead of dying in 3x11, Pan and Felix were stripped of magic and sent into our world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waking up to you

**Author's Note:**

> So I just kinda found this sitting in my files. So I was like, 'hey, what the hell, why not post it?"

It’s early, Peter’s sprawled on his stomach, one hand unconsciously wrapped around the posts of the headboard, the other balled up around a t-shirt that had been haphazardly discarded earlier in the night. He’s only about halfway asleep. When he blinks he finds the light spilling from the blinds grows warmer -- it was dark only a minute ago.

He raises his head. The black alarm clock on the nightstand reads 6:03, and Peter groans, releases the t-shirt and gives his pillow a few good punches.

It’s been a while, a few months, since he’d backed out of casting the curse over Storybrooke, had his powers ripped from him, and sent on a wild goose chase to find something satisfactory in this life in this land without magic.

He and Felix have been to twelve Westerns that all claim to be the Best (and frankly, all of them were shit). Three “mom-and-pop” (as Felix calls them) motels. Two Holiday Inns. And they've spent countless nights in the backseat of the Chevy. 

Peter’s growing used to sleeping. It’s a waste of time, a blow to his ego to have to go under and restart every fourteen hours or so, but he finds it easier to shut his eyes and fall into a dream now.

He hates that it’s a requirement now. In Neverland, he never had to sleep. He would from time to time, when things got boring. But it was an obligation in this world. Something he had to do, or else his body would shut down.

It’s loathsome, being so vulnerable, so human -- limited not only by his body, but by a sun that he has no control over. He can't tell night to go away or day to come, not in this land without magic. Just like everyone else, he's bound by _time._

He’s still whacking at his pillow, knuckles gone white on the bedposts, when  he’s stilled by a hand rubbing circles into the slope of his back. Nails tease against his spine and he shivers at the feathery contact. He hears an amused breath, can picture the smile without having to look before he feels lips under his hip. The hand flattens and presses him into the mattress.

Peter turns his head, cocks his brow. Felix perches at an angle he can’t quite see from his stomach, the hand swirling around on his back is light and surreal, tracing something complex in the simple spheres and light scratching. There’s a second hand, a thumb pressing crescent shapes into the underside of his knees, he flexes his leg on impulse, trapping the rest of the hand in the compress between his thigh and calf.

The lips move, pressing with some force against the seat of his trousers, before ascending to the small of his back, springing down to touch him with lips in the same pattern as his hands.

Peter’s swayed backwards, and Felix is smiling again. Peter can tell, this time, not from the noise, but from the way Felix’s lips are pulled taut against the notches in his spine. He’s not making any action to kiss or press down anymore, simply sliding his grin up along Peter’s spine, it’s open and easy, and for just a beat, Peter forgets what he’d been on about before this began.

Felix stops with his face framed inside the wings of Peter’s shoulder blades. He kisses once before drawing his tongue in a straight line from his shoulder to neck. He laughs when Peter arches and sighs, removes his mouth from the boy and sits back, settling between Peter’s legs.

From the new position, Peter can’t quite tell if Felix’s eyes are glinting from the way the light skews through the drapes or from an utterly mad attempt to firebrand him.

Peter can feel a vibration in his heartstrings, grips the air and brings his fist down towards his chest. In mimicry of a spell, Felix topples on his hands and knees before him.

Setting his brows, Peter glows, smirks. Half himself. “Can’t stand to have me relieve my frustrations on anything but you, can you?”

Felix rolls his eyes, and throws Peter off guard when he snatches his arm. An unprecedented bolt of strength, and Peter finds himself whipped up and around, thrown onto his back. Felix on his knees between his legs, scraping his nails down Peter’s sides, before settling under his waistband, pressing thumbprints into the bone.

“You’re upset,” Felix says simply.

Peter scoffs, his voice cold and his fingers reaching out to Felix, swiping around on his skin. “Oh whatever could have brought that on?”

Felix chews on the inside of his cheek. He stops for a beat, trying to decide the best thing to say. The familiar sentence flows from his mouth without thought. “Peter Pan never fails.”

Peter growls. The last thing he wants right now is his failure shoved in his face. He twitches in the bed, Felix takes his wrists in hand, a sad look in his eyes. You’d think he’d be used to Peter’s moods by now.

“I mean it,” He says and prompts Peter to grip the headboard - which, in his confusion, he does. “You won.”

Peter starts to roll his eyes, to speak to refute his friend, but he’s once again caught by surprise when Felix pushes his hair back and presses his lips to his temple.

He’s whispering into his skull and Peter’s pretending not to shiver.

“You chose not to cast the curse. I don’t think you wanted to in the first place.”

Peter jostles his face away. Felix knows how much he hates it when other people try to tell him what his intentions are.

But Felix smiles again, gives that contented breath and the lips are drawn tight as they graze over his ear and around his cheek, ending for a moment along his jaw.

“You got out. We’re free. You told me once that’s what you wanted.”

“Freedom?” Peter’s cross-eyed from the proximity, in a compromising position with his arms up over his head, but manages to sound unimpressed. “How uninspired.”

Felix vocalizes his laugh this time, once. It cracks through the room. The vibrations thereafter makes the fragmented light brighter behind the blinds.

“You’re still Peter Pan,” Felix mumbles into his chin. It would have been muffled and unintelligible, but he’s said it so much in the last month that it’s almost scripted.  

This time, Peter succeeds in tossing his head. “You seem to be under the impression that that means something.”

“It does.” Felix sits up, puzzlement etched onto his stoic features, his scar wrinkling slightly as his cheek twitches.

“Do tell Felix,” Peter goades. “I’m dying to know what scrap of optimism you’re clinging onto.”

“It isn’t optimism.” Felix offers and tightens his hands against Peter’s hips. “It’s…”

He fades, words leaving his mind. Peter starts to smirk, but finds his chortle swallowed down inside Felix’s throat. It’s become so common he doesn’t have to think about reciprocating, knows exactly how to purse his lips and flicker his tongue to gain advantage.

His tongue slides against Felix’s. His diaphragm quivers and his hips make a mad attempt to jolt, but they hold still under Felix’s hands. Peter felt the bruises start to form when he tried to press up. He glares between movements, swinging his legs around, one to coil about Felix’s middle and the other to burrow between his thighs, shin rotating and sliding in against him, feeling the stirring through the flannel between them.

Peter’s arms move to seize Felix’s face, aiming for leverage and to direct a more favorable angle.

Felix warbles as Peter’s shin starts to press. He caps a kiss and hovers over the smaller boy’s mouth. “Put them back.”

Peter stills for a second, brows drawing down.

“Your hands.” Felix specifies, his voice nearly an octave lower than normal. “Put them back.”

“Or what?”

Felix sparks at the challenge, grabbing Peter by the leg, pulling him down lower on the mattress, arms pinning him down. Peter thrashes for a moment, talons out, mouth curled into a telling grin, eyes sparking.

His lips widen as Felix’s hips shift to pin his down -- purposely keeping just a half inch or so from Peter, close enough to feel the heat but not quite touching.

Felix presses his lips against his throat, coming up with some rhythm from his mind, combining open and closed kisses with the sort that sucked and nibbled on the skin. He moves to his collar, skimming his hands up to move Peter’s hands back to the headboard.

“Hold still,” He whispers against Peter’s bones, “I’ll show you what it means.”

He can barely move before Peter’s let go of the headboard again, spinning them around so Felix is pressed against the folds of cheap sheets. Peter wriggles in between sheets and limbs, lying on his elbows and pressing into his boy.

“Not a chance,” He says, wry grin on his lips, and he leans down and _bites._

 

 


End file.
